


Pop-Tart, or, the Untitled HookerFic Coda

by samalander



Series: Stay The Night [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Diners, Fluff, Gen, a horse named pop-tart, animal death warning, clint and kate are bros, hawkeye squared, hookereye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate asks Clint if he's ever been in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pop-Tart, or, the Untitled HookerFic Coda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [when-it-rains-it-snows](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=when-it-rains-it-snows).



> This is a piece of fluff for a friend who needs it, and has been helping me get through some shit. Set 6 months to a year after "You Kill The Lights," this functions as a coda, where more is unsaid than anyone is willing to admit.

Kate wants to know things, wants to stick her fingers into the dark places in Clint's past and find what he's hidden there. Sometimes he gives in, sometimes he tells stories about Nevada, about the circus and Iowa. Sometimes he clamps down, holds his heart to his chest and shields himself like she's dangerous. Sometimes he lies, makes up insane stories about elephants rocking him to sleep, women who had feathers instead of hair, a warm, safe home where he was loved and wanted.

"You ever been in love?" she asks one day, the bags under her eyes pronounced as she peers at him over the rim of a coffee mug. 

The diner is shitty, one of a thousand shitty diners Clint has found in New York, but they make okay coffee, and sometimes it makes him feel homey, like he's back with Tess and the girls. He misses the hot sun and the cold nights, the people who all knew him. He feels anonymous here, like he could walk into the sea and the only one who would notice is Kate.

"Yeah," he says, poking at the runny eggs. "Couple times."

"Tell me," she says, somewhere between a question and a command. He's never sure with her, really, how much he owes her, how much she owns him. It's weird, and it's nebulous and undefined, but they let it sit, because better undefined and weird than defined and restrictive.

"You ever been around a colt?" he asks. 

She nods. "Clint, I'm a rich girl from New Jersey."

"No," he says, though he smiles at her. "Like, a new colt. A baby horse just figuring out it has legs, and it's so confused cause it has to get those under control before it can eat, and man, it's starving, right? But it's just there, like-- like it's trying to stand on pipe cleaners, and you gotta let it figure itself out. They don't even make noise, that new, cause they haven't gotten their noses together"

Kate shakes her head, propping her head on her chin and leaning in. "Cute?"

"I guess," Clint shrugs. "Mostly brown. All the horses are brown, but some are mares and when you're hired for foaling, man, you gotta take care of the mares."

He smiles, looking out the window. "Anyway, there's this mare, right? Some stupid name, like Jumble Bug or Snow on the Sierra, right? She's foaling, and she doesn't make it. It's fine, that happens. Except Jumble Bug, she was the boss man's favorite. And she doesn't survive, and he comes out, fuming like he's gonna kill the vet, old guy, name of Gary. But bossman just hits his knees, next to this dead horse."

Kate shakes her head. "He fire you? You find love in the arms of a fellow professional?"

"No," Clint snaps, strangely mad at her. "I used to live out there, you know. Sleep in my truck, cause it's not like I had much. But the boss, he tells me that this mare was his first, and she built the place, and then he tells me whatever he's paying me, I can have triple if I take care of the colt."

Kate tilts her head to the side, looking like she's gonna ask another question, but it doesn't come, so Clint keeps going.

"I took it. Three times what I made was still nothing, but it was-- it was the difference, really, between shitty story brand PopTarts, and the brand name. So, you know, that's what I called the horse. Pop-Tart. Had another horse name, Arrow of the Queen, Folly's Foal, something. I don't know. But I raised it. And the guys, they gave me shit. All the shit. But I slept in that stall, helped it figure out bottles and buckets, and, you know. Shared my Pop-Tarts. Cause that thing-- he was paying my bill, getting me the good stuff. He could have some, too. You know horses like Pop-Tarts?"

"No," she says, her voice soft. "So-- so you fell in love?"

His coffee is cold, but Clint takes a swallow before he answers. "He was a damn good horse, okay? We got along. But, you know, foaling ends, and babies grow up, and most of the hired men move on. So I moved on."

Kate thinks for a second. "You didn't keep him?"

"Girly-girl," Clint laughs. "Girl, that colt's mama was insured for fifty g's. Not a chance. And-- and where was I gonna keep a stallion? In the bed of my truck? Ride him to visit tricks? Not likely."

"I guess," she says, her eyes unfocused. "So what happened?"

"What happened?" Clint shrugs. "I went back to my night job, and Pop-Tart got sold to someone with more dollars than sense, and life ticked on."

"Then you met me," she says. Clint rolls his eyes. "And I save you from the life of heartbreak and colts you couldn't keep."

"Yeah," he says, finishing his cold coffee and tossing a few dollars onto the table. "And brought me to a life where I put on a penguin suit and pour mimosas for the kind of people who own horses. Come on, I'm gonna be late."

Kate doesn't reply, just adds some money to the table and follows him.

* * *

"Where are we going?" he asks, climbing into the purple Beetle that Kate drives, his knees pushed against his chest.

"Out," she says, but she's wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, so he's pretty sure he's safe from canapes, at least for now.

She jabbers as they drive, sometimes talking about archery and these friends she's met, sometimes singing, but mostly keeping up a stream of noise as Clint stares out the window. She takes the Long Island Expressway, heading out towards the ocean, away from the city.

The ride is long, but going anywhere on Long Island always takes forever, he thinks. She takes an exist he's never heard of, towards a town with a name he's butcher if he tries to pronounce it. 

"We going to get drunk on the beach?" he asks, glancing at the dashboard. "Cause it's two in the afternoon."

"No," Kate says, simply, turning left and then right.

He stops guessing, then, and waits. He can wait an awful long time. Longer than her, usually.

But she pulls up to a barn, and his eyebrows shoot up as he eyes her suspiciously. "Katie--"

"Do you trust me?" she asks, sliding her stupid aviator shades down her nose to peer at him.

"Yeah," he says. "Then trust me."

They climb out of the car, the smell of hay and manure sharp in CLint's nose, adn he follows her into the shade of the barn, to a specific stable.

"This is Hawkeye," she says, clicking her tongue. The head that emerges is huge, but the marking is unmistakable, the small smudge of white between the stallion's eyes like an arrow.

"Pop-Tart?" Clint asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer, opting instead to throw his arms around the giant horse's neck. 

For his part, Pop-Tart rubs his lips through Clint's hair, and Clint laughs, his voice tight.

"Katie," he says, but she shakes her head.

"Take your time," she says. "His tack is in the room, and it's labeled as Barton," she grins at him. "I got a couple other family horses here, I'm gonna check up."

He doesn't say anything, opting instead to bury his face in the soft fuzz of Pop-Tart's neck. When Clint looks up again, Kate is gone, but she's left a box behind her. Clint picks it up and laughs, turning back to his horse and opening the stall door.

"Strawberry," he says, holding the box out so the horse can see. "With frosting. Your favorite."

For his part, Pop-Tart snorts, and takes a bite of Clint's shirt.


End file.
